Second Chance
by Muse-icfan756
Summary: This is a short story I wrote for a competition about how time passes and memories mean everything. Comments and criticism is appreciated.  Inspired by Shinedown songs: 45, Second Chance and Cry For Help  One shot


Second Chance

Life changes quickly. If there was one thing I could do with my life, if a genie came down and granted me one wish, I would take my life back to my childhood years and do it all again. I remember being a teenager, wracked just with then aggravation of alienation and hormones, looking forward to becoming an adult. I thought life would be great. I'd be out by myself with nobody else controlling my life. I could do whatever I wanted I whenever I wanted. Little did I know that would get me into trouble.

Wistful thoughts always accompany moments like these. A well-known fact. Flashbacks, maybe. Or just begging for some form of forgiveness. Either way, I was starting to wish I'd gone to church when I had the chance. Maybe then I wouldn't be in a situation like this. My mother always used to scold me for not believing. She always told me that I should have faith in the Lord and he would bring me salvation when the time comes. Who would've thought that a twenty-seven year old would be begging for their mother at a moment like this. I'm supposed to be tough. I'm supposed to be a bad-ass.

I was always the naughty girl at school. Talking back in class, skirt too short, in detention almost everyday. People thought it was funny. I was popular among the others, and they could get me to do all their dirty work for them. I was always picking fights with people, and usually won them. And, occasionally, I may put myself to good use. Beating up the class bully for example. I did get a severe punishment, of course, but at least everyone else was safe. That's what mattered. They used to say it was weird for somebody like me to have a kind heart, but it was true. I just loved to help people. I really was helping somebody this time. Nobody believes me. I don't think anyone wants to believe me. They want to rid this world of the trouble-maker that is me. I've wrecked too much havoc on the city, apparently. It's not like I'm a serious robber or a serial killer. I was framed! I'm telling the truth! But nobody cares, I don't think.

My father cares, of course. He was seriously mad when he found out what had happened to me. The last time I'd seen him this angry was, well, when I originally ran away. I watched them from a distance, waiting to see if they were bothered that I'd left. It hadn't seemed like it until the window smashed with the impact of Dad shoving his fist through it. I stared after them, slinking behind as they got a taxi to the A and E department at the local hospital. And then I sprinted away. I didn't want anybody to find me. I'd been sixteen when I left; leaving behind everything I used to know. Every person, every thing I'd owned. No. I didn't care anymore. I left it all behind purposefully.

Those ten years passed fairly quickly. Yeah, I got locked-up a few times, but I was always out before my parents could catch me again. My mind used as a weapon, my fists helping me make my way through the world. I lived off the street, fighting it out with anybody else who bothered me. And then, I fell in love. At least, it felt that way.

John. I remember his handsome face. The chiselled jaw, the ruffled blonde hair, those ocean blue eyes that seemed to warm with emotion as he stared down at me. And he would take me in, give me a home. I worked for him, and he let me live with him in return. Our relationship blossomed, and I finally found the confidence to go outside once more-to confront the World. Of course, that's when it all fell apart _again_. I got into trouble with the cops again for beating someone up. I was under influence, but I'd really injured the guy. And when I was finally bailed out, John had disappeared. There was no note. Nothing to inform me of his absence. My heart was crushed. I'd _loved_ him. I'd given everything that I had to him, and then he left just because I got into trouble.

I stare at the people in front of me and wonder why I did it. Wonder why my life is such a mess. Surely it's not my fault? Surely I didn't destroy myself like this? I hadn't meant it to end like this. But, as I stand here at gunpoint, the man pointing his .45 at me, I know that this is it. And it must've been me. It was _all my fault_. I'm a failure. A disgrace to humankind. I don't deserve the right to live. Of course, being me, as I stare down the barrel of the gun, I let out a dry chuckle which will only convince them I'm guilty. They could at least give me the dignity of doing it myself, couldn't they? But they just stand there, impassive, because they're trained to do that. I'd always considered becoming a cop, but I'm really bad at impulse control. I doubted I'd be able to stop myself from beating up the criminals.

"Pull the trigger then," I told the man who was trying to keep his emotions off his face. His hands slipped on the metal of the gun as he aimed it carefully at my chest. I smiled at him, finished with swimming through the ashes of somebody's life. There isn't really a reason to accept the way my life's changed, but I do anyway. I've never needed reasons. I close my eyes, close my heart against the guilt. The gun fires and the sound echoes, bouncing off the walls. I feel the merciless, biting pain in my chest and think to myself, _sometimes good bye is a second chance. _


End file.
